


Drawing Blood

by transfixeddream



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/pseuds/transfixeddream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the corner of his eye he sees flashes of Stiles, pale skin and dark jacket, but the image is always gone when he turns his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawing Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fourth round of stop_drop_howl, for the prompt _deep down_. Thank you to shinyslasher for going over this for me!

The scene is grisly, just like the other three that he's seen this week. The body is of a teenaged boy, and the room looks like a paint-by-numbers with the amount of blood splattered on the walls and floors. Derek digs his fingernails into his palm as he takes in the angry red slashes, and he can feel his own blood trickle down his hand. Sheriff Stilinski is examining the facedown body, but Derek doesn't have to spare it a second glance to know cause of death.

There's been nine over the past month, and every one of them has had their throat ripped out.

"Did he do it?" Scott asks. Derek wants to spit at him that of course he did it, but then he looks at Scott and sees the blind optimism there, and bites his tongue. The sheriff shifts between them with an expression all too familiar at this point. Derek watches as the hope drains from Scott's face. "Shit," he says.

"You boys should leave before I call this one in." Sheriff Stilinski stands with a shaky sigh. "His parents will probably be home soon."

"He needs to be stopped," Scott says, like it's that simple. Like it could ever be that simple.

The sheriff rubs the back of his head and stares down at the body. With his bloodshot, sunken eyes and pale face, he looks more like a corpse than the body on the floor. Defeated--that's what he looks like. "That would come down to you two," he says flatly.

Derek doesn't respond, because he has no idea how to respond to that. Instead, he takes in the boy on the floor once more, his dead body mangled and bruised and bloody, the scent already assaulting Derek's senses. He can't tell by looking at him how old he is, but he has to be between sixteen and eighteen: they always are. Derek knows this has to stop, that _he_ has to be stopped, but at the same time can't comprehend actually doing anything about it.

He leaves the two of them without a word and walks past the open door, where Stiles has painted a crudely drawn smile with his latest victim's blood.

*

Derek doesn't sleep anymore.

He _can_ , if he lets himself, but his dreams are always the same flashes of a night he would rather forget. Stiles' frightened, panicked face, and then later, his cold, drained body, and even later still, his red mouth stretched in a blood-soaked grin.

Whenever he sleeps, Stiles dies all over again. So now he just doesn't.

*

_Derek_ , he hears sometimes, whispers and screams that invade his head. Sometimes, he thinks they're more than just screeching echoes in the back of his mind. From the corner of his eye he sees flashes of Stiles, pale skin and dark jacket, but the image is always gone when he turns his head.

He can almost sense Stiles in the room, has seen the scratches on his door and the way his windows will sometimes be open a crack. Lydia brought him a cross to hang on his wall, and the next day it was split in half, splintered across Derek's table.

He opens the door, and catches the whiff of death in the air. In the center of his flat is a small grey and red bundle. Derek walks to it and picks it up, feels the wetness soak into his skin. It's a plush wolf, as large as his hand, and its fur is sticky with blood. Derek sighs and drops it in the trash, and then goes to his bedroom, bypassing the small trickles of blood left pooling on the floor. 

_Derek_ , he hears, but when he looks around, nobody is ever there.

*

The eleventh body appears three nights later. Another boy, another teenager, just like the rest. Scott calls him in the middle of the night, stirring him from another restless session of lying in bed, staring at the wall.

"Him again," Scott says as soon as Derek picks up. Like he calls Derek for any other reason these days.

"Did you know him?"

Scott clears his throat. "Sort of. He sat next to me in history last year."

Derek sighs and sits up, runs a hand through his hair. "Any sign of him?"

"No," Scott replies. He's silent for a minute, and then, "Do you want the address?"

"I've seen enough of them already," Derek says, and disconnects the call before Scott can protest.

Derek lies back down for a moment and clenches his eyes shut. He feels hot and sticky, like his skin's too tight for his body, and his throat feels like it's closing up. He shoves the covers off of himself and gets out of bed, heads to the sink and fills a glass with water. He doesn't feel the draft on his bare back until he's set the glass in the sink.

"You're not going to run off and see my latest? That's a shame; I think it's the best work I've ever done."

His shoulders tighten and he grips the counter, knuckles going white. "Get out," Derek says.

Derek can't see Stiles, doesn't _want_ to see Stiles, but the sneer is clear in his voice. "So rude." Derek can sense Stiles approaching, but it doesn't stop him from jumping when Stiles places his cold hand on Derek's hip. "Do you really want me to go, Derek?"

"Get out," Derek repeats, this time with more force. Still, when Stiles tries to turn him around, he doesn't fight it. Stiles' mouth is a faded red, his skin pale, his eyes dark. He's a shell of what he used to be, and Derek doesn't want to look at him, but he finds himself staring anyway.

"Did you like my present?"

"Get. Out."

Stiles continues to ignore him, his hand slinking over Derek's stomach. "I was going to bring you Scott's head," he says, teeth glinting with the stray beams of moonlight flickering in from the window. "But I didn't think you'd appreciate that."

Derek sees red at that and blindly shoves Stiles with all his strength, watches with a sick satisfaction as he slams into the counter, falling to his hands and knees. Something cracks, but Derek can't tell if it's Stiles or the counter. Stiles chokes out a laugh as he struggles to his feet. "Geez, Derek, learn to take a joke."

"I told you to get out," Derek spits. "Get out, before I kill you."

Stiles spreads his arms wide. "You're a little late for that, buddy." He licks his lips, takes a hesitant step towards Derek. "Besides, if you really didn't want me here, you would've put up all of the same crap everybody else did. One little cross? Derek, it's like you were inviting me in."

"They did that for protection," Derek says. "I don't need to protect myself from you."

The corners of Stiles' mouth curl up into a smile. "Of course you don't. I wouldn't hurt you, Derek. You're the reason I'm like this--why would I punish you for it? I should _thank_ you."

Stiles takes another step, and Derek somehow resists the urge to fling him into the counter again. He should. Fuck, he _should_. He should beat Stiles until his body is as ugly as the monster he's become. He should slit Stiles' throat and avenge the eleven he's killed, and save the countless others he will kill. But he doesn't do any of that; he lets Stiles approach him, lets Stiles put his filthy hands on his arm and his hip.

He laughs softly, a sickening sort of laugh that makes Derek's stomach tighten. "I died a virgin. Don't you think that's depressing?"

"Don't touch me," Derek says, and it sounds weak even to his own ears. Stiles looks as unconvinced as he is.

"I have it on good authority that once upon a time all you wanted was for me to touch you."

Derek catches Stiles' wrists in his hands, squeezes tight. If he wanted to, he could shatter them. "You're not Stiles," he says, pushing him away.

"Oh, come on. I'm still the same fun ol' Stiles deep down. I've just learned a few new tricks." Stiles approaches him again, invading his space. His hands slip down Derek's waist. He leans in close, his lips brushing against Derek's cheek. Maybe he's not Stiles, but he looks--

"You're _not_."

Derek swallows and jerks his head away from Stiles' searching mouth. 

"I'm new and improved, Derek, and it's all thanks to you," Stiles says quietly. He slides his hand over Derek's groin, pushing against Derek's dick. "Let me thank you, Derek."

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and grips the edge of the counter, trying to fight a losing battle. Stiles is palming Derek through his underwear, and it feels like all of the blood in his body is making its way down south, cock hardening under Stiles' touch. Stiles moves his hand from Derek's dick to his underwear, slipping past the elastic, and Derek grabs his wrist again, feels his fingernails extending into Stiles' flesh.

"It's okay," Stiles murmurs, mouth inches from Derek's. "I don't bite. Much."

And for some reason, that's the final nail in the coffin--Derek releases Stiles' wrist and, using his other hand, pulls Stiles' head towards him, until their lips crash together. Stiles makes a delighted sort of noise and opens up for Derek, his hand sinking into Derek's underwear and gripping his cock. And Derek doesn't want it to, but it feels good, Stiles' fingers deft around him, working him with a certain ability he wouldn't have thought Stiles had.

_I've just learned a few new tricks_ , Derek recalls, as he pushes into Stiles' mouth and tries to ignore the overwhelming taste of blood on his tongue. Stiles kisses back with vigor, groaning against Derek like it's the best thing he's ever experienced. He nips at Derek's lips, catching the bottom one between his teeth and tugging, and suddenly Derek can taste his own blood in his mouth as Stiles licks the pain away.

Stiles pulls away with a groan, presses his forehead against Derek's shoulder. "Fuck," he groans as he jerks Derek, "you're so fucking _big_. I knew you'd be."

Derek doesn't know how to respond to that, but Stiles doesn't appear to be waiting for a response. He squeezes the back of Stiles' neck, and then Stiles smirks up at him, licks a stray line of blood on his lip and slides to his knees.

Stiles marks a path in Derek's stomach on his way down, fingernails digging into his skin with a sharp sting. They're the same fingernails that spilled the blood of eleven people, and yet Derek finds it hard to keep reminding himself of that. He looks down and it's easy to look past the too-pale face, the sunken eyes, and just see Stiles there, on his knees in front of him.

Stiles slides his hands behind Derek, to grope his ass, and then he tugs down Derek's underwear until they're around his ankles. He doesn't waste time at that point, taking Derek in one hand and licking a wet stripe up the underside of his dick, before taking the head in his mouth. Derek makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat and unconsciously shifts his hips out a bit, pushing deeper into Stiles' willing mouth.

With one hand, Stiles grips the base of Derek's dick and uses the other to paw at Derek's ass cheek, fingers digging into the soft flesh there. He starts slow, bobbing on the edge of Derek's dick, before taking him farther, lips pushing up against the side of his hand. Derek thrusts slightly, driving himself in a little more, and tries to ignore the fact that there's no heat inside Stiles, only slick wetness.

Stiles pulls off momentarily, resuming jerking Derek with his hand, and sucks one of Derek's balls into his mouth, and then the other. When Derek moans, Stiles gazes up at him, lips parted, shiny and pale, looking perfectly content to just stay there and do nothing else.

"C'mon," Derek says, tight and impatient, but Stiles doesn't move.

"Make me," Stiles says, but there's no smirk lurking on his face, only pure anticipation.

Derek feels his eyes widen, and he slides his hands to cup the back of Stiles' head. He pauses there, staring at Stiles, and reminds himself that this isn't the Stiles he knows--the Stiles he _knew_ \--before he guides Stiles' mouth to the base of his dick. He slowly pushes past Stiles' lips, holding his head in place as he goes deeper into Stiles' mouth, until he hits the back of Stiles' throat. Stiles gags around him, and he's about to pull off when Stiles grips the back of his thighs with both hands and tries to urge his head forward.

Derek swallows and continues, slipping into Stiles' throat until Stiles' lips are flush with the base of his dick. Stiles makes a noise around him, spit dribbling out and down Derek's balls, and Derek thinks he can see tears forming in Stiles' eyes.

He eases off, slowly sliding himself out of Stiles' throat and mouth, and then he slams back in, eliciting a medley of flagrant groans from both of them. Derek fucks Stiles' mouth hard and relentless, hands keeping Stiles' head steady while he chokes on Derek's dick, his nails cutting into Derek's thighs with each shove. Derek is breathing hard, and his head is dizzy with the need for release, his vision swimming as he watches Stiles take every inch of his dick.

His skin feels like it's on fire, scorching while Stiles is still so cold, and he can feel his orgasm building up quickly. He's close, so fucking close that he's practically shaking with it, and Stiles' mouth, even though it's not close to what he imagined or what he really wants, it's still so _good_ , pliant and wet and eager to please.

"I'm--" he chokes out, and then winces when Stiles' fingers dig deep in his thighs, locking him in place. Stiles is stronger than he ever would've estimated.

Derek releases Stiles' head and Stiles pulls off, shaking his head as he wipes at his eyes. "No, not like this," he says, voice gravelly and thick. "Fuck me."

Stiles gets to his feet, and Derek nods to the counter. "There," he says, his voice sounding as fucked out as Stiles'. Stiles raises an eyebrow and smirks, but he turns his back to Derek and sets his hands on top of the counter.

Derek pulls Stiles' pants down haphazardly to his knees, exposing his smooth, pale ass. Stiles groans and backs up towards Derek, ass brushing against Derek's hard dick. Derek sticks two fingers in his mouth and wets them, slides them against Stiles' hole.

Stiles looks over his shoulder and chuckles, eyes dark. "You don't have to do that. Just fuck me already."

Derek narrows his eyes and spits into his hand, coating his dick with it. He grips Stiles' hip with one hand and guides his dick with the other. He spits again on Stiles' hole, spreads it with the head of his dick, and then presses in. Stiles hisses at the initial push, and god, he's so _tight_. Derek finds it difficult to breathe around the clench of Stiles' body, but he bites his lip and slides in deeper, gyrating his hips a little.

It feels like an hour before Derek's able to bottom out, pressed tight against Stiles' ass, but once he gets to that point, things are much smoother. He pulls out and slides back in, able to grip Stiles' hips in both hands as he fucks into him.

"Faster," Stiles gasps after they work up a rhythm, gripping the edge of the counter. Derek shifts one of his hands to Stiles' shoulder and complies, fucking harder into him, a steady fury of thrust after thrust. The loud and blithe groans from Stiles fuel him on, filling his ears and swarming his mind. Sweat is dripping down his face and chest, and he's already so close from before.

" _Harder_ ," Stiles says, his hand furiously working himself off between his legs, and Derek doesn't know if he actually _can_ , feels like he's already giving it all he has, but he tries, slams harder and harsher into Stiles, digs his palm into his shoulder blade. With one more groan, Stiles comes and Derek can feel it all around him, clenching down as Stiles starts to slag against him.

Derek's thrusts get a little unsteady after that, but he's almost there, release bubbling just below the surface, and he doesn't care. He pushes into Stiles harder and harder, until he feels like every part of his body is going to give out. Stiles grabs Derek's hand, and he doesn't realize what is happening until he feels the sharp sting of Stiles' teeth biting into his wrist.

Derek comes like that, hard and brutal and impossibly deep in Stiles, with Stiles feasting on his blood.

He pulls out and can't help but notice trail of his come that trickles out of Stiles' hole behind him. Stiles releases his arm, and turns around to face him with a bloody, red mouth. Derek stares at him, at his sunken dark eyes and his pale skin and his freshly bloodied mouth, and he's reminded of just what Stiles _is_ now, of what he's become. His skin feels hot now for all the wrong reasons, and Derek can feel his claws grow again.

He looks down at his wrist, bleeding profusely and dripping on the floor, and it's already healing. In an hour, every mark that Stiles has made on him will have healed, and there'll be no remnants of tonight. It doesn't comfort Derek as much as he thinks it should.

"Get out," he growls, and Stiles grins at him, all teeth.

"Sure," Stiles says simply, as he backs away without a second thought. "I'll see you around, Derek."

Derek knows that he should end this. He should rip Stiles' throat the same way that Stiles has done to so many already, fast and quick and ruthless. But he doesn't. He can't. Instead, he watches as Stiles pulls up his pants and ambles out of the flat, closing the door softly behind him.


End file.
